


Alone With The Moon

by Tangerine_ForgetMeNot



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, RusAme, Werewolf AU, halloween fic, werewolf!Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine_ForgetMeNot/pseuds/Tangerine_ForgetMeNot
Summary: Ivan is a werewolf who lives with his human mate, Alfred, in a small town where no one knows about his condition. One day Alfred takes a short business trip, promising to come back before the full moon. What could go wrong?The answer is: a lot of things.





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you have to leave now?”

“I know the timing is really bad, but this is the biggest sale I’ve had in years, and if I don’t get this furniture to the Beilschmidts’ by Thursday, we won’t be able to pay mortgage again, and we might lose the house.”

Ivan let out a low whine, wrapping his arms around his mate’s waist. “Please, Fedya, can’t it wait until next week?” He punctuated his words by looking deep into Alfred’s eyes, turning his puppy face charm to max.

Alfred laughed, running his hands through Ivan’s soft hair. “I’ll pick up some souvenirs on my way back, ’kay? How’s that sound?”

Ivan pouted, but didn’t say anything. He knew that this sale was really important for Alfred, who kept the pair afloat with his small carpentry business, but he wished it didn’t have to happen so close to the full moon. It didn’t help that his current clients lived in the next town over, which was a four-day round trip at best. Alfred’s statement that this was the biggest sale he’d had in years was no exaggeration; his clients had ordered a dinner table with four chairs, a coffee table, and a loveseat—all matching, of course. Alfred, never one to turn down a challenge, had taken on the job pretty much single-handedly. Ivan had helped wherever he could, but he simply didn’t have Alfred’s skill and craftsmanship, so he ended up doing most of the work on his own.

“I know this is really cutting it close, babe,” said Alfred, “So I got some herbs from Old Woman Kirkland to help you if the symptoms start showing early. I also wrote down the instructions for how to put them together so you can do it while I’m away.”

Old Woman Kirkland, the owner of their village’s apothecary, was renowned for her incredible knowledge of herbal medicine, as well as her prickly nature and sharp tongue. She was one of the three people in their village who knew of Ivan’s lycanthropy—the other two being Alfred and Ivan himself. Alfred had bought her silence with free shelf replacements and a new dresser, and in return she supplied them with herbs and medicines to help keep Ivan’s condition under control during the full moon.

As far as anyone else knew, Ivan was just a recluse who didn’t like to participate in any of the community’s celebrations or traditions. He didn’t have a job, he didn’t have any friends, and his only real hobby was tending a small garden in their backyard. Alfred was the exact opposite—enthusiastic, outgoing, and always ready for the next adventure. Why he would choose to spend his time with a man like Ivan was a much-discussed topic among the village gossips, but thankfully, none of their speculations were anywhere close to the truth.

It wasn’t that Ivan liked secluding himself away from others; in fact, he would give just about anything to be a normal human. But if he established himself as an active member of the community, his monthly absence would be quickly noticed, and it wouldn’t take long from there for people to realize what he was. So he stayed at home, trying to help Alfred as best he could by cutting down and dragging trees home for Alfred to carve into beautiful furniture, waiting for the day when he could be truly free to be himself without fear of persecution.

But today was not that day, and soon he would be alone while Alfred went out to finish business with those Beilschmidt people. Coming along was out of the question—the risk of being discovered was far too high, and they both felt much more comfortable having Ivan at home this close to the full moon.

With a heavy sigh, Ivan let go of his mate to help load the furniture into the cart, a task made easy by his supernatural strength. Once it was done, the pair shared a sweet kiss and promises of staying safe. Moments later Alfred was hitching up their horse, Hero, to the cart, and shortly after that, he was gone, leaving Ivan to himself for four days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I'm still alive! In case anyone's worried, no, I'm not giving up on Call of the Sea. I had a hiatus over the summer and now writer's block is kicking my ass. But now we're in the month of Halloween, so I decided to do a short fic in honor of the spookiest time of the year!


	2. Chapter 2

The first two days of Alfred’s trip were very easy—pleasant, almost. It would have been more enjoyable were it not for the gnawing thought in the back of his mind that maybe he should have just delivered the furniture late and stayed with Ivan. But then came a countering thought that Ivan had been alone during the full moon before and he’d been fine then, so there was no reason to assume he’d be less than fine now. These two thoughts battled in the back of Alfred’s mind, creating an overall sense of unease that haunted him all the way to the Beilschmidts’ house.

When he arrived, he was struck by the humble size of the house. For people able to place such an expensive order, they didn’t seem to flaunt their wealth. Their business had been conducted through letters, so he’d never been there in person before. Still, it was clear that the house was well-built and well cared for, with a lovely flower garden to the left, and a large, fenced-in field to the right and back. He jumped off the cart and slowly approached the house, his steps echoing slightly in the quiet yard. He knocked on the door four times, and was answered with the barking of what sounded like a dozen dogs racing toward the door.

“Whoever’s out there had better stand back!” called a voice from within. A second later the door burst open, unleashing a canine tsunami that swept Alfred right off his feet, knocking the wind out of him and sending his glasses sailing through the air. Just as quickly as they had come, the dogs ran off into the open field, leaving Alfred on the ground, covered in drool and paw prints.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” said the voice. “Here, are these yours?” A blurry hand offered him the fallen glasses. Alfred stared for a moment, still recovering from the shock of what had just happened, before taking his glasses and putting them back on. Through the smudged lenses he saw standing over him.

“My name is Feliciano Beilschmidt,” said the man, helping Alfred to his feet.

“I’m Alfred Jones,” Alfred replied. “I’m here to deliver the furniture you ordered.”

“Oh, wonderful!” said Feliciano. “Stay right here, I’ll go get my husband!” And just like that, he disappeared back into the house. Alfred stayed right where he was, bracing himself for another wave of dogs. When the door opened again, he was instead greeted by a very tall, very muscular man who had a very serious, almost grim expression.

“You’re Mr. Jones, then?” he said, though it was wasn’t really a question.

“Yep, that’s me,” said Alfred. “I got your furniture.”

“Excellent.” The tall man reached out and grasped his hand, shaking it very firmly. “I’m Ludwig Beilschmidt. I see you met Feliciano."

“Nice to meet ya—and yes, I did,” Alfred returned with a winning smile, trying not to wince as he pulled his hand away. “Everything’s packed up in the cart. I had to disassemble the loveseat to get it in, but I can help you put it back together if you want.”

“Perhaps,” said Ludwig. “Let’s get the furniture inside, then we’ll see.”

“Sounds good to me.”

It took about ten minutes for the two men to get the chairs and loveseat parts into the house while Feliciano lead Hero to their stable, and another twenty-five minutes for the table after they realized it couldn’t fit through the door and had to be taken apart. Alfred did end up helping Ludwig put the table and loveseat back together, showing him how to fit the pieces together while Ludwig studiously wrote down the instructions on a notepad. All in all, the whole operation took about two and a half hours, and by that time the sun was setting.

“These are so beautiful!” Feliciano cooed, draping himself across the loveseat. “And so comfortable, too! Come try it, Luddy!”

“You’ll have to sit up first,” Ludwig said with a smile.

Feliciano let out a dramatic sigh, as if asked to do some great laborious task, and shifted over to let his husband sit down beside him.

“This is indeed quite comfortable,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think we’ll need any cushions for this. The craftsmanship is superb,” he continued, turning to address Alfred. “You really are incredible at what you do.”

“Th-thanks,” Alfred sputtered, cheeks reddening from the compliment. “Oh, I almost forgot—if anything breaks within a month, let me know and I’ll come take a look at it. If I can’t fix it right there and then, I’ll give you a replacement half off. I haven’t had any complaints so far, though, so you should be fine.”

The two nodded, a gesture that was followed by a stretch of awkward silence.

“So, um…” he said, fumbling for a topic of conversation. “Uh… why do you have so many dogs?”

“Luddy’s a dog breeder,” said Feliciano. “He breed hunting dogs. He also helps organize the annual dog show down at the big city.”

“How do you breed dogs?” he asked. “Do you just, like… get dogs to do it, and that’s it?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” said Ludwig. “First, you have to know what traits you’re breeding for. This can be difficult if the traits are rare, or if they come with other traits that you don’t want. If, for example, I want to breed a mastiff and a bloodhound to get a dog that’s large and has a great sense of smell…”

His passion for dog breeding was obvious, as he talked on and on about the intricacies of breeding certain traits, how to choose the best sires and dams for breeding, and about the cruelty of inbreeding for the sake of aesthetic appeal. Alfred, being too polite to cut him off, feigned interest as he glanced at the window from time to time, watching the sun sink below the horizon. After a while, Feliciano gently interrupted him by pointing out that it was time to feed the dogs.

“I should be going,” said Alfred as soon as Ludwig was gone. “It’s been great talking with you, but I’ve got some stuff to do at home, and I gotta get back as soon as I can.”

“Oh, at least stay for dinner,” said Feliciano. “I was making sausage and cheese tortellini with broth while you and Luddy were building. It’s a family recipe that my grandfather back in Roma taught me.”

As soon as he said that, Alfred became aware of a delicious smell emanating from the kitchen, and he realized he was famished.

“I’m sure it tastes great,” he said, refusing to be tempted, “But I really have to—”

“You must try it,” the man insisted. “Think of it as payment for getting through Luddy’s speech.”

“It was no problem, I just—”

“Trust me, I understand,” Feliciano laughed. “I’ve been married to him for eight years and I barely understand most of the things he says about breeding techniques and all that. You actually made it farther than most people; almost everyone finds some excuse to leave long before he gets to the inbreeding rant. But you’ve been so gracious after coming all the way out here to bring the furniture and helping Luddy set it up, and then listening to him—surely you must be hungry.”

Alfred was about to say that no, thank you, he wasn’t hungry, but before he could get the words out his stomach answered for him with a loud growl. A moment later he found himself sitting in a chair he’d hand-carved at the table he’d just helped assemble, a piping hot bowl of tortellini in broth sitting before him while Feliciano got some for himself. Soon after Ludwig joined them, and the three made polite conversation that, thankfully, had nothing to do with dogs.

By the time Alfred came back to reality, it was far too late to start the journey back, so he reluctantly let Ludwig and Feliciano lead him to their guest bedroom, promising himself that he would leave at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, customers that are just a little too friendly. How will this affect Alfred's plans? Stay tuned to find out!
> 
> Also for the record I know absolutely nothing about dog breeding. Nothing at all. Not even a little bit.


	3. Chapter 3

Ivan let out a heavy sigh. Every minute he was alone felt like an hour, and every hour felt like an eternity. He tried to keep himself busy by cutting down a tree and slicing it up into big chunks, organizing and reorganizing the order sheets (he would have to re-reorganize them later, or else Alfred wouldn’t be able to find anything when he got back), and tidying the house until it was so clean that he had to take all the cushions off the couch and throw them all over the place just to feel sane.

These activities got him through two of Alfred’s four days of absence.

Now he was lying in bed, wrapped up in four thick blankets, breathing in the calming scent of his mate. The chill of late October had settled over the village for good. It crept into homes and shops alike, reddening cheeks and noses and fingertips while frosting the grass in the fields. Ivan could feel the cold slipping its fingers under the blankets, and held them tighter against himself. All he could think about was how warm and cozy he would be if Alfred was there to snuggle with him. He stayed there for several hours, drifting in and out of sleep, trying to ignore the hollow jabs of hunger in favor of staying in his warm nest.

Sometime around noon the hunger pains became too strong to ignore. With a groan, Ivan reluctantly got out of bed, still wrapped in one of the blankets, and padded over to the kitchen to see what there was to eat.

Their house was a small, one-story box of a building, and had only five rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a dining room. Well, it was really four rooms—the dining room and the living room were in the same space that had been split in half, with the dining room table at the far end next to the kitchen door, and the 3-seat couch and fireplace closer to the front door. Thanks to Alfred, theirs was also one of the only homes with wooden floors. In a village as small and poor as the one they lived in, such a luxury was almost exclusively used for public buildings, like the worship house and the inn—almost every private home had packed dirt or stone floors.

Ivan opened the pantry, searching for something vaguely tasty. Inside he found a block of hard cheese, three cloves of garlic, a small clump of dried rosemary, and one lonely, wilted radish. He closed the pantry and looked around the rest of the kitchen for something better. On the counter was half a loaf of bread with the bread knife still in it, and hanging above that was a was a large bundle of dried beef strips. On the floor was a sack of potatoes, some of which had started to grow roots. A glance around told him that that was all he had in the way of food.

He sighed. Perhaps there was something that could be salvaged from all this.

Ivan stood there, pondering his options. He could make a dried beef sandwich—no, he’d had three for dinner last night. He could boil a few potatoes and melt some of the cheese over it. He shook his head, deciding against that, too. What else could he make? Without realizing it, he began to pace back and forth, wandering into the dining room as he tried in vain to think of some way he could combine these items to make something vaguely enticing. His train of thought, slow to leave the station as it was, was interrupted by a knock on the door. He stopped mid stride, sniffing the air to see if perhaps Alfred had come home early.

It wasn’t Alfred’s familiar scent that greeted his nose, but instead one that he hadn’t smelled in several months.

 _Oh God, not him_ , Ivan thought. _What does he want?_

The knocking persisted, getting louder and faster the longer he waited to answer the door. “Oi! Alfred!” called a voice from outside. “Get out here! I need to talk to you!”

Ivan bristled. That man had no right to demand anything from Alfred. A moment later he crossed the house and wrenched the door open so forcefully that he almost pulled it off its hinges.

 _“What do you want?”_ he snarled, trying to look as menacing as humanly possible. With his wild hair, dark circles under his eyes, and fierce expression, he easily achieved the look. The man on the other side of the threshold jumped slightly, but quickly regained his composure, looking at Ivan with no small amount of disdain.

It was Arthur Kirkland, the youngest son of Old Woman Kirkland. It was a well-known fact that Arthur was infatuated with Alfred, and thought himself to be a much better suitor than Ivan. Even after Alfred ultimately chose Ivan, the man had tried for weeks to not-so-subtly convince him to reconsider. It wasn’t until Alfred told him to kindly fuck off that Arthur finally did so, albeit quite bitterly. But that had all happened well over three years ago, and since then the couple had hardly heard anything from him. So why was he here now?

“Arthur,” said Ivan. “What a surprise. Had I known you were here, I might have dressed up for the occasion.”

“Oh, stuff it,” said Arthur coldly. “I need to talk to Alfred now. It’s important.”

“Alfred is not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Out.”

“Out _where?”_

“Why do you want to know?” Ivan asked, determined to be as unhelpful as possible.

“That’s none of your concern,” said Arthur. “I have urgent business that I need to discuss with Alfred as soon as possible. Now tell me where he is!”

“I can take a message for him,” he said. “Or if you want to place an order, I can write it down and give it to him when he gets back.”

“I’m not placing an order, I need to speak with him personally!” Arthur yelled, starting to go red in the face. “For God’s sake, at least tell me when he’s getting back!”

“Soon.”

_“How soon?”_

“Less than a year.”

The two locked eyes, each waiting for the other to do something. Arthur was the first to break. He looked down, taking a deep breath as he tried to reign in his temper.

“Ivan, why are you being so stubborn?” he asked.

“Arthur, I think you know exactly why,” Ivan said cheerfully. There was another pause, this one lasting several moments longer than the first. Once again, Arthur was the first to break the silence.

“You don’t deserve Alfred,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Of all the things Ivan had been expecting him to say, that was not one of them.

“You don’t deserve Alfred,” he repeated, staring him right in the eye. “You keep him hidden away from everyone else. You make sure he’s in your sad little house as much as possible so you can always keep an eye on him. You’re just selfish—selfish and jealous! If he were with me he could do so much better—”

“Are you done?” said Ivan, rolling his eyes. “We have already been through this. Alfred loves me and I love him, and that is why he chose me. I don’t know if you noticed, what with all your brooding and self-pitying, but Alfred is quite free to go wherever he wants—as I said, he is not here right now. If he stays in the house with me for long periods of time, that is because he chose to do so. Though I think it makes sense for an engaged couple to spend time together, yes?”

The change in Arthur’s expression from accusatory to shocked was so dramatic that it took all of Ivan’s willpower not to burst out laughing. He and Alfred didn’t plan to have their union officiated by a priest—not yet, anyway. They were mates, and they were deeply in love, and that was enough for them. Of course the people of their village didn’t know that, but it hardly mattered. What mattered right now was the way Arthur’s eyes had gone wide as dinner plates, his mouth hanging open comically.

“How—but—when—” he sputtered.

“Good day, Arthur,” said Ivan, and closed the door in his face. God, what a nuisance. At least that was over with. His stomach let out a loud growl, reminding him that he still hadn’t eaten. He turned his gaze to the fireplace, which had long since gone cold, and the heavy iron pot that hung over it. Suddenly, he had an idea: he could make a nice stew with all the ingredients in the kitchen. He quickly set about to making the fire, filling up the pot with water, and began cutting up some potatoes.

 _Yes, this would do nicely,_ he thought to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jealous ex-suitors and clashing personalities abound! Will this all come to a head? Stay tuned to find out!


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred pulled his coat tightly round himself, shivering in the cold autumn air. It was finally the day of Spirits Night, the one night of the year when the spirits of the unburied dead were said to be able interact with the living. Some spirits asked to have their bodies buried, and might lead someone to the corpse so it could be given the proper funeral rites and be laid to rest at last. Others came for vengeance, to wreak havoc on those who had done them wrong or somehow participated in their unacceptable post mortem care. Because living folk couldn’t know the intentions of a spirit until it was too late to escape, it was customary that everyone wear masks from sunset until they went to bed, so any spirits who fell into the latter category wouldn’t be able to recognize them. For their village specifically, it was also a tradition that a great feast would be held as soon as the sun disappeared below the horizon, with one table with a dozen bottles of their best wines set apart from the others, so that the angry spirits might be made merry—or, at least, more forgiving.

Alfred had not brought a mask with him because he planned to be back long before sunset. He had never been the religious type, but he was mortally terrified of ghosts, so he followed the mask-wearing traditions like everyone else. Ivan had scoffed at the idea, saying that if a spirit really wanted to do him harm, a mask wouldn’t stop it. This offhanded statement had earned him a hard whack on the arm, followed by an all-nighter that consisted of him comforting his trembling mate while huddled under a mountain of blankets. Ivan hadn’t minded that very much, but Alfred’s fear had been practically tangible, so he refrained from making such comments ever again.

It was the fourth day of his trip, and Alfred was more than ready to be home. He hadn’t slept well last night; though the inn he’d stayed at was comfortable enough, he couldn’t stop thinking about how Ivan was doing.

 _He’ll be fine,_ he’d kept telling himself. _He survived for twenty-two years before he met me, so he’ll have no problem now. Besides, he’s got those herbs from Old Woman Kirkland, and they’ve always helped him, so there’s no reason to worry._ However, the thought didn’t offer him much comfort, and it had been hours before he finally fell asleep.

Now it was in the early afternoon, and he was only a few hours away from returning home. The cart was now empty but for a wool blanket and a bag of oats for Hero, a flask of water, a small bag with bread and dried beef strips that he’d brought from home, and a wide canvas sheet that had been used to protect the furniture from the weather, as well as a few ropes to tie it down.

Alfred let out a sigh, his breath forming a small cloud that fogged up his glasses. The distance between his village and the town where the Beildschmidts lived was completely bare of civilization, save for the singular inn where he had spent the previous night. There weren’t even farms this far out, having been replaced hours ago by a forest that was far older than any human dwelling in the area. All the summer birds had flown south already, and most of the other small inhabitants of the forest were settling down for the winter. Thus, the only sounds to be heard were the rustling of leaves, the creaking of the wooden cart wheels over the packed dirt road, and the occasional caw of a crow.

It didn’t take long for Alfred to start daydreaming, having nothing to do and no one to talk to. He thought about Ivan, about his gorgeous violet eyes, soft hair, and warm smile. He patted his pocket with a smile, knowing that his mate would appreciate the item inside. It was an ornately painted matryoshka doll, imported from a city in an eastern province near Ivan’s place of birth. He’d spotted it in a toy stall right at the edge of town, and simply had to buy it—after all, he had promised to bring back a souvenir. It wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t too expensive either, and the pouch of coin from the Beilschmidts felt hardly any lighter after the purchase. He could just see the way his whole face would light up at being presented with the gift, and the image made him feel a little bit warmer.

Some time into his fantasies, Alfred realized that the cart had stopped moving. He looked up and, to his dismay, saw a large tree had fallen over the road, completely blocking it from access. It must have happened very recently, as the road had been clear when he had traveled this way in the opposite direction only a few days prior. He hopped down from the cart and inspected the fallen tree. It was some sort of pine, about two and a half feet wide at the thickest part of the trunk and fifty feet long. It had snapped at the base of the trunk, and a quick examination showed why: it had been eaten away by insects, which had made it vulnerable to fungus that caused the heartwood to rot, which in turn had weakened the tree at the bottom until it could no longer hold itself up.

Alfred took a few steps back, assessing the situation. He could go back and take a different route that followed a nearby river until it eventually rejoined this road about a mile from the village. But that would take another day, and with the full moon starting that night, he couldn’t afford a longer route. He could try going around the tree though the forest… no, that wouldn’t work either. The wheels of his cart were not meant for the rough terrain of the forest, and if one or both broke, he would have a hell of a time getting home no matter what direction he came from. That left only one option: move the tree out of the way. That would be quite a task, but Alfred had never been one to shy away from a challenge, and he wasn't about to start now.

He walked back and forth down the length of the tree, thinking about how best to approach this situation. At first, he broke off several branches at the thinner end of the tree and tried to drag it off to the side. Just as expected, he could barely move it an inch. He tried breaking off more branches, but it was still too heavy. At the end, all he got was a large pile of branches and blisters on his hands.

 _If only Ivan were here,_ he thought. _He could move this thing in no time at all. If only the stupid tree hadn’t fallen down at all, then I wouldn’t be stuck here._ If only, if only, if only—he had no time for if only’s. He needed a plan that he could execute so he could get home before dark.

From behind him, Hero let out a snort and pawed at the ground.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, asshole,” Alfred grumbled. “Wonderful. First I get stuck with a tree in the road, and now I’m being mocked by a horse.”

Then, all at once, an idea dropped into his head.

“Wait a second—what am I doing? I can have you pull it!” he said, turning to face Hero. “You’re a genius! Man, what would I do without you?”

He quickly unhitched Hero from the cart and lead him around the side of the tree, taking him back to the section of the tree where he’d stripped off the branches, took the ropes from the cart, and tied them to the traces of the harness and around the tree. He stepped back and looked at his handiwork with a grin. He was confident that Hero could pull the tree out of the way—he was a very strong horse, having pulled many full loads of freshly chopped wood from place to place. There was no reason Alfred could think of that he wouldn’t be able to pull this off.

“Alright, buddy, let’s see what you can do,” he said, grabbing the reins. It was slow going, but eventually Hero was able to move the tree so it only blocked half the road. Alfred untied him from the tree and re-hitched him to the cart, but didn’t immediately push him to start going. Instead, he rewarded Hero with a few minutes to rest and a couple handfuls of oats.

However, they couldn’t wait too long. As Alfred glanced up at the sky, he was slightly alarmed to find that over two hours had passed. Getting home before the sun set was of the utmost importance, and he had wasted too much time already. With that in mind, Alfred gave his horse an extra hard tap on the rump to get him going. He had a lot of lost time to make up for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time's a-wasting—perhaps too much time. Will Alfred be able to get home before dark? Stay tuned for more!


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was just above the treeline, turning the sky a lively gradient of pink, orange, and gold. The village was bustling with Spirits Night activity; music was playing, young children were running about, and tables were being piled high with food for the feast. Lanterns made from various gourds decorated the windows of every house and shop, and soon colorful masks would decorate the faces of every member of the community. It was a wonderful evening that would turn into a spectacular night for all—all except for one.

Ivan was a wreck. He traipsed throughout the house, trying to shake an incessant buzzing noise out of his head. Unlike the previous day, which he had slept halfway through, he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep last night, and it showed. His hands were constantly shaking; the bags under his eyes had gotten exponentially darker; he would randomly start muttering nonsense to himself, realize what he was doing, and tell himself to stop it. These were all common symptoms of a werewolf very close to transforming, but for Ivan, they were terrifying omens.

It was a little known fact among humans that, during the full moon, a werewolf being in the presence of their mate helped them control their transformation, to the point where some could avoid it altogether. This was viable for two reasons: 1, transformations took an incredible amount of energy—which was why werewolves were known for their ravenous hunger—and 2, it was much easier to control their wolf instincts when in human form. Ivan was one such werewolf, and he relied heavily on Alfred to help him get through each night of the full moon. The herbs from Old Woman Kirkland were helpful, but on their own, all they did was slow down the inevitable and lessen the symptoms that came before; it was really Alfred that kept him from turning into a mindless, destructive beast every month.

Ivan clenched his jaw tightly. At some point his teeth had started chattering, but whether it was from the chill of late autumn or from pre-transformation symptoms was hard to say.

“Where is Alfred?” he asked no one in particular. “Why isn’t he home yet?”

He wandered into the dining room, looping around the table several times before going back into the living room.

“I want my Alfred back,” he said, a slight whine creeping into his voice. “I want my mate to come home.”

He stumbled and collapsed onto the couch, hitting the soft cushions, which he had put back yesterday, face first. He lay there for a moment, staying absolutely still, until he slowly slid off the couch and rolled onto the floor. He let out a heavy sigh, which turned into a growl of frustration.

 _Damn those Beilschmidt people,_ he thought. _I hope they burn in hell for keeping Alfred away from me._

Rationally, he knew this didn’t make sense. The Beilschmidts had done nothing wrong—in fact, they were greatly helping his and Alfred’s business. But Ivan had not been thinking rationally all day, and so he cursed them body and soul for getting between him and his mate.

Now that Ivan was in a decidedly foul mood, he needed something to vent his anger with. He grabbed the edge of the rug and began tearing at it with his teeth, gnawing the coarse fabric to shreds. This was far from the first time he had torn up a rug, nor would it be the last; it was for this reason that they always bought cheap, easily replaceable rugs, and kept a couple spares in their bedroom closet. It took a while, but eventually Ivan managed to reduce it to a wet lump of woolen fibers. Normally, this would have been sufficient to release his emotions, but with Alfred gone, it wasn’t enough. His hands, unoccupied and needing something new to grasp at, turned on him as they began pulling at his clothes and hair. The wolf inside him was desperate for release, having been locked up inside him for so long. But he had to stay strong, he had to resist—to give in was to unleash a force of chaos and death upon the village.

Suddenly, an idea emerged in his half-delusional mind: maybe if he let the wolf out, just this once, it would go away forever. Maybe if he let loose tonight, he would be free from the curse that had plagued him for decades.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “I won’t let you out. Never.”

He lurched to his feet, eyes searching wildly for Old Woman Kirkland’s herbs. He spotted them on top of the mantle above the fireplace, quickly snatched them up. There were three herbs in the bundle—moonwort root, ground juniper berries, and dog rose hips—as well as a piece of paper with the instructions written in Alfred’s messy handwriting. It read:

_Take 3 moonwort roots & mash up _

_Mix in 9 dog rose hips_

_Pour in COLD water_

_Add a pinch of juniper_

_Stir 6 times clockwise_

_Drink the whole thing_

That sounded simple enough. Ivan stumbled to the kitchen and grabbed a small, ceramic bowl decorated with sunflowers—a gift from one of Alfred’s previous trips—and practically ran out the back door to the rainwater barrel, where he filled the bowl with water. He easily mashed the moonwort roots with a fist and tossed them into the bowl, along with the dog rose hips and what he hoped was a pinch of juniper. He stirred the sludge with his finger, having forgotten to bring out a spoon, and tilted back the bowl to drink.

But at that moment his legs, which had been getting more and more shaky as time went on, gave out under him. It was so sudden that he didn’t have time to grab onto the water barrel to steady himself, and so he dropped to the ground—and the bowl, along with his hope, was smashed against the earth. Ivan lay there for a moment, paralyzed with shock, his whole body trembling. That was it. His last chance of staying in control was gone. He didn’t need the dark shadows to signal the time—he could feel it in his bones. The sun had finally sunk below the horizon, and the moon, in her great and terrible beauty, was ascending into the sky.

 _Get up,_ beckoned a voice in his head. _Get up and show them what you are… Let the whole world bow to your might, to your ferocity… You and I are one… I am the wolf, and the wolf is you._

At that moment a white-hot agony seized him, crushing the breath from his lungs so that he couldn’t scream, couldn’t make a sound. A loud ripping noise filled the air as his body suddenly grew, almost double in size in less than a minute, his clothes falling off of him in shreds. His hands and feet became paws, his teeth fangs, his nails claws, and a tail grew out from the base of his spine. A moment later his chest was filled with air again, and he threw back his head and let out one long, savage howl.

The wolf had been released.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit's officially hit the fan, folks! What will happen when Alfred gets back? Will Arthur make a reappearance? We'll find out in the next and final chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

The Spirits Night festival was in full swing when Alfred finally arrived. A small band was playing lively music while everyone else sang and danced around a great bonfire. Gourd lanterns were everywhere, their cheerful glowing faces forming a short path from the village gate to the square. The spirits’ wine had just been opened, so everyone was getting ready for the feast. This was by far one of the best Spirits Night celebrations that had ever been held in the village, and the air was crackling with joyful energy.

But all the bright colors, sounds and smells of the holiday could not pierce the hard shell of fear that encased Alfred’s heart. As the sun had slipped below the horizon, he had begun praying to every god and goddess he could think of to protect Ivan. He prayed that the herbs had worked, that Ivan had enough food to satisfy him, that, above all, he was safe. He also prayed that he himself could get home faster, but none of the deities seemed to hear that part. Hopefully they listened to everything else.

He had spent the last five hours trying to get Hero to go faster than a trot, but to no avail. The horse was worn out after dragging the tree out of the road, and nothing could get him to move faster. Several times Alfred had contemplated leaving the cart behind and ride home on horseback instead, but he didn’t have a saddle and carts were expensive to replace, so he ultimately decided against that. Now that it was far too late to do anything, he was wondering if he should have just sucked it up, dropped the cart, and ridden home bareback.

The house was completely dark as he approached, and he felt the fear around his heart spread to his lungs, tightening his whole chest.

“Ivan?”

Nothing.

“Ivan?” he called again. “I’m home, babe. Come on out.”

Again he was met with silence. The fear leapt into his throat, cold as ice, threatening to choke him.

“Ivan, I’m serious,” he said. “If you don’t come out now, I’m not giving you the present I got.”

The only sounds that could be heard were from the festival in the distance. Inside the house, there was only the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet.

“Ivan, this isn’t funny anymore,” Alfred said, his voice rising slightly. “At least tell me where you are.”

He reached for a lantern and matches that he kept on a hook beside the door, but it was gone. He eventually found it on the floor about four feet away from its usual spot. The metal frame was slightly dented, one of the glass panels was cracked, and the matches were strewn across the floor. Definitely Ivan’s handiwork.

Alfred lit the lantern and looked around. The living room rug was completely destroyed, but that was to be expected. He walked further into the house, calling out for his mate. The moment he entered the kitchen, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The back door was wide open, and the smashed remains of the rainwater barrel were scattered all over the ground. He slowly stepped forward, and as he reached the door, he noticed pieces of fabric among with the wood fragments, along with shards of ceramic and a grayish paste with red spots mixed it. He stared at them, uncomprehending, until a horrible realization dawned on him.

“No… oh God no…”

He dropped to his knees and picked up a scrap of cloth. It was only about the size of his palm, but he knew the pattern anywhere. It was Ivan’s favorite sweater, the one he wore during the full moon to help comfort him. And the broken ceramic with the paste—that had to be the herbs from Old Woman Kirkland.

In the years they had lived together, Ivan had only lost control twice. Both episodes happened early on in their relationship, before they were officially mates. The first time he had killed and eaten four sheep in a nearby pasture before Alfred was able to calm him down. The second time he had broken most of the furniture in the house before Alfred managed to give him a large piece of meat, which had been soaked in a strong sedative overnight, that knocked him out cold in five minutes. But those had been quiet nights, when the rest of the village had already gone to sleep. Now everyone was out celebrating Spirits Night, and if Ivan got anywhere near the crowd, it would be a disaster.

As if on cue, the music of the festival came to a sudden stop, replaced by a chorus of terrified screams. Alfred was on his feet in an instant, sprinting towards the source of the sound as fast as his legs could carry him.

None of the gods had listened to his prayers from earlier, but perhaps they would hear one last, desperate plea:

_Please, please, I beg you, don’t let Ivan die._

• • • • • • •

Alfred was met with a scene of chaos when he finally arrived at the village square. Tables were overturned, gourd lanterns were smashed, and people were running in all different directions. Alfred pushed against the crowd, his eyes sweeping the area as he searched for Ivan. The clamor was deafening, to the point where he could barely hear himself think. Then he heard several voices rise up over the rest, and the snatches of words he caught told him all he needed to know.

“There it is!”

“—got it cornered!”

“Kill it! Kill it before—”

Alfred fought twice as hard to get through the crowd, even shoving a few people roughly in his attempts to get to Ivan. Finally he forced his way into the clearing at the edge of the square. In front of him, two dozen masked men holding pitchforks and torches were standing in a semicircle—and beyond them was Ivan, backed against a wall. He was in full wolf form, crouched on all fours, teeth bared, muscles tense and ready to strike. If Alfred didn’t do something now, a bloodbath was certain to follow.

“Wait!” he cried out. “Stop! Don’t hurt him!”

He shoved one of the men aside, putting himself between them and Ivan. The men were so surprised that they didn’t stop him, but that was only temporary.

“What are you doing, Alfred? Get away from that thing!” said the man nearest to him. “It’s a werewolf, for God’s sake! It’ll eat you alive!”

“No, no, you don’t understand!” said Alfred. “He’s not dangerous! I can make him stop!”

“Alfred, step away from Ivan,” said a different voice. Alfred turned to face him, and saw none other than Arthur Kirkland pulling off his bright green mask, a large knife clutched in one hand.

Alfred stared at him, his gut twisting into a knot. “How—how did you—”

“I saw my mother making a bundle of herbs the other day,” he answered calmly. “And do you know what she used? Moonwort, juniper, and dog rose—all plants associated with the moon, as well as werewolves. I asked her what they were for, but the old hag didn’t want to tell me, so I made her a special mug of tea to help loosen her tongue a bit. And do you know what she said?” he asked, his eyes burning into Alfred’s. “She said that they were for Ivan Braginsky, to keep his ‘condition’ under control so no one else would know about it.”

All eyes were on him now as he continued to speak. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, to find out that your lover was a monster all along,” he said, his voice dripping with pity. “I know how you must feel, Alfred. The shock, the confusion, the horror of it all. I tried to warn you yesterday, after I found out the truth, but you weren't home then. But now you are here, and I promise that this will all be over soon, and you will never have to fear him again.”

In a way, Arthur was right; Alfred's emotions were indeed a mix of shock, confusion, and horror. But he got the reasons all wrong.

“You—you used a truth serum on your own mother?!” he gasped. He knew Arthur was not above underhanded maneuvers, but he never imagined that he would stoop that low.

Now it was Arthur’s turn to be confused. “Of all the things you could be worried about, that’s the one you chose?” he said incredulously.

“Do you honestly think I didn’t know Ivan was a werewolf?” Alfred shot back. “Do you think I’m so stupid that I didn’t notice after living with him for _two entire years?_ Of course I knew! I’ve been helping him hide since before we started courting—why do you think he hasn’t attacked me yet?” he said, gesturing behind him. Ivan had not moved from his spot against the wall, and though he ears were still pointed back, he was no longer baring his teeth, and all his attention seemed to be focused on Alfred alone.

“I know what you’re thinking, Arthur,” he said. “And the answer is yes. I did choose a werewolf over you. Get over it.”

He suddenly became aware of how silent the village square had become. Almost everyone had retreated into the safety of their homes, but a few people remained at the far end of the square, watching, waiting to see what would happen next. The men surrounding them were standing stock-still, their pitchforks and torches still held at the ready, though the men themselves seemed less so.

Arthur’s face was expressionless, but Alfred could see the turmoil in his eyes.

“Let us go,” he said quietly, addressing the whole group. “We’ll leave tonight. We’ll go somewhere far away, and I promise you’ll never see or hear from us again.”

“We can’t do that,” said one of the men off to his left. “That thing’ll bring terror to innocent folk no matter where it goes. We gotta take care of it now, before it kills someone. Now get outta the way so we can do what has to be done.”

A murmur of agreement rose up from the others, and he could see some of them adjusting their grip on their weapons. He didn't move a muscle.

"Are you deaf or something?" said a man in a red mask. "Get out so we can kill that thing!"

"No."

"This is not the the time to be stubborn,” said Arthur. “You need to—”

"Don't you dare!" Alfred yelled, wheeling on him. "Don't you _dare_ fucking tell me to leave so you can kill him! You'll have to go through me first!"

"Alfred, please, you’re not thinking this through—”

“I don’t need you to save me, _Arthur_ ,” he spat. “I’m not a damsel in distress, and you’re not some knight in shining armor. You’re a lying, manipulating, filthy fucking _coward_. I never loved you—I never even liked you! I just tolerated you because I was too nice to tell you to fuck off until you tried to get me to leave Ivan. And now you think you can just tell me to step aside so you can get rid of the man I really love? I don’t fucking think so!”

"Enough of this!" the red-masked man shouted, grabbing Alfred by the arm.

With a roar, Ivan suddenly leapt up and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him away and holding him tightly against his chest. The men all jumped back, yelling and cursing as they fell into disarray. Even hunched over, Ivan towered over the tallest man in the group. That, combined with his snapping teeth and the low, threatening growl issuing from the bowels of his throat, made him look even more monstrous in the flickering torchlight. 

“It’s gonna eat him!” cried out someone in the crowd.

But Alfred knew better. He reached up and began gently scratching under Ivan’s jaw as he whispered soothing words to him. After a few moments Ivan relaxed somewhat, though he still kept his eyes and ears trained on the chaos surrounding them.

“Son of a bitch,” one man said. “It’s protecting him.”

The men stopped and stared, thunderstruck. They looked at one another, trying to figure out what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened in all the years their village had existed. At this point, some were beginning to question whether it would be better to just let them go and be done with it.

Alfred caught a flash of movement in his peripheries, and suddenly Ivan let out a bloodcurdling howl of pain, which was followed by an even louder, more human shriek. He was dropped on his hands and knees, and all he could hear was the rending of flesh, the cracking of bone, and the terrified screams of the men around him. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. He turned, and the first thing he saw was the shattered remnants of a mask on the ground, the green paint stained with dark red splatters. His gaze slowly travelled up until he saw Ivan crouched low to the ground… and the knife that was lodged in his shoulder. 

Alfred pulled himself to his feet and reached out, grasping the knife handle firmly in his hand, and yanked it out. He barely heard the raw cry of pain from his mate as he stared at the blade, transfixed. Even covered with blood, it seemed to shine in the moonlight with an otherworldly glow.

_Silver._

All at once the world came back to speed, and his blood turned to ice as everything finally clicked. Arthur had snuck through the chaos of the crowd while he was calming down Ivan and had tried to stab him in the back. Ivan had noticed the movement and turned just in time so that the knife didn’t puncture any vital organs, but instead sank into his shoulder, all the way to the hilt. The blow itself would not likely kill him, but the silver blade had put Ivan in such intense agony that he had reacted instinctively, just as any other creature would—by violently lashing out at the source of his pain.

Alfred dropped the knife, and it landed with a clatter on the ground. They had to leave _now_ , before the villagers regrouped and killed them both.

“Ivan!” he cried. “We have to get out of here!” He tried to pull Ivan away from the body, but in his haste he accidentally grabbed his wounded shoulder. Ivan whipped around and snarled, startling Alfred into stumbling back and falling into the frenzied crowd. In that moment he caught a glimpse of the mutilated corpse that had once been Arthur Kirkland. He saw a head only attached to the body by a thin strip of tissue; a torso that had been disemboweled and half eaten; an arm that had been ripped off completely and lay beside the mess of entrails.

But he couldn’t think about that now. Alfred tried to get back up, but was swarmed by half a dozen men who grabbed his arms and legs and pinned him down.

“We got him!” one of them shouted. “Now go kill that thing!”

“No!” Alfred struggled against the men holding him down, but he wasn’t strong enough to escape. “Please,” he begged, “Please, you can’t—you don’t know what you’re doing—”

“Shut it!” yelled a man in a yellow mask. “That werewolf killed one of ours, so we’re gonna give it what it deserves. And _you_ , Alfred Jones, are going to the gallows for bringing it into our village!” The man kicked him hard in the head and he collapsed against the ground, dazed.

A moment later the yellow-masked man was suddenly gone—flung effortlessly across the village square where he landed with a hard _thud_ and did not stir. Ivan had escaped the circle of pitchforks and angry voices, and was ready to wreak havoc on anyone who hurt his mate.

The others holding Alfred down couldn’t get away fast enough, scrambling for their weapons as the werewolf scooped up the limp man bridal style and plunged headfirst into the crowd, sending men flying in all directions as he plowed through. Some tried to attack him, but he was too fast, and in less than a minute he was out of the crowd, out of the square, out of the village.

As Alfred came to, he looked over Ivan’s shoulder and saw a bright orange light in the distance. It was an enormous fire, and he could see figures dancing and running around it. Though his filthy glasses made it hard to see, he knew exactly what was burning.

It was their house.

The other villagers had set it ablaze in order to destroy the curse that lay over it—the werewolf’s curse—and now they were performing one of the age-old rituals to cleanse the area of any power it may have left over.

Within moments that was gone too, and all he could see was the clouds of smoke rising up through the trees, the acrid plumes made blue by the light of the full moon.

He wasn’t quite sure when the tears started, but at some point he became aware of the cold wetness on his cheeks and the stinging in his eyes. He buried his face in the crook of Ivan’s neck, trying to keep his breathing steady as he inhaled the familiar, musky scent of his mate.

Everything was gone. The house, all his tools and materials, _everything_. Their home and livelihood had been destroyed, reduced to a pile of lifeless ash. As he thought about it, he realized that Hero had probably been made into the same ash as the house. After all, they couldn’t let a curse-tainted animal roam free. More tears welled up in his eyes, but he blinked them away. He couldn’t afford to fall apart now.

Ivan ran down the dirt road, not caring where he was going, only that he had to get away from the men who had tried to hurt him and Alfred. He ran as far and fast as he could, until he could not run anymore. Finally, after what felt like hours, he collapsed in the middle of the road, his chest heaving as he gulped down lungfuls of frigid night air. Though the moon was still high in the sky, he began to revert back to his human form. His fur retreated, revealing pale, bloodied skin and light body hair; his claws and fangs shrank into nails and teeth; his tail receded back into the base of his spine. Alfred wiggled out from under him as the transition happened, and he ever so gently lifted up and cradled his mate’s very human, very naked body against his chest. It was cold, far too cold for a human who had suffered such bad blood loss to survive without any protection against the weather.

Alfred moved quickly and methodically, shrugging off his coat and wrapping it around Ivan’s shivering form and laying him back down on the ground. After this he took off his shirt and began to tear it into long strips of fabric. Goosebumps immediately rose up on his skin, but he ignored it as he removed the coat from Ivan and began carefully wrapping the makeshift bandages around his injured shoulder, trying to make them tight enough to put pressure on the wound but not so tight that it cut off blood circulation to his whole arm. When this was done, Alfred put the coat back on him and buttoned it up. It was a little small, but it was the best he could do. He then took off his socks and boots, putting the socks on Ivan’s feet and the boots back on his own. The socks were made from thick wool, designed to keep in heat and prevent frostbite. Hopefully it would be enough without boots.

Ivan was so utterly drained that he didn’t resist any of Alfred’s ministrations. Ever since they had become mates they had spent every full moon together, and because of this, he had only transformed into a wolf twice over the past three years. His lack of transformation for such a prolonged period meant that it was much more taxing on his body than it had been before he and Alfred met, when he transformed every month. Before, he would have been able to walk even after running for so long, though passersby would likely have mistaken him for a stumbling drunk; now he could barely lift up his head, let alone stand up. When Alfred pulled him back into his lap and held him tightly, he pressed himself against his mate’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Finally Alfred spoke, his voice just barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Vanya. This is all my f-fault. I should’ve listened t-to you, I should’ve s-stayed home… Now everything’s g-gone and it’s all m-my fault—” The words caught in his throat as he choked back a sob.

Ivan slowly tilted his face up and pressed a kiss to Alfred’s neck. “Fedya… my darling…” he said weakly, “Don’t blame yourself. It’s not… not your fault. I should have… made the herbs… sooner. I… could have bought you… more time…”

This was too much for Alfred. He burst into tears, clutching Ivan to himself as tightly as he dared. How could Ivan even think of blaming himself? He had told Alfred not to leave so close to the full moon, but he’d gone anyway, and now they were homeless and freezing, forced to split one outfit between the two of them for warmth.

Ivan reached out and brushed the tears from Alfred’s face, then cupped his cheek in his hand.

“My love,” he whispered. “We will be alright… I promise.”

Alfred nodded, taking Ivan’s hand in his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. Then Ivan took back his hand, reaching into one of the coat pockets and pulling something out. It was the matryoshka doll that Alfred had bought for him.

“Is this… my present?” he asked.

“Yes it is,” said Alfred. “Do you like it?”

In spite his bone-deep exhaustion, Ivan’s smile was radiant, and it filled Alfred’s chest with warmth. “I love it,” he said. “It’s perfect.”

They stayed there for a while longer, though how long exactly was hard to say. Eventually they put away the doll and Alfred, with some difficulty, managed to get Ivan to crawl onto his back so he could carry him that way. He walked about a hundred yards when he looked up and saw a large pine tree blocking his path—or, rather, blocking half of his path.

He stared. Either he was hallucinating, or Ivan had run literal _miles_ to get them this far. No wonder he was so worn out.

Then it hit him—they were halfway to the inn he had stayed at the previous night. Sure, it would take longer to get there than it had when he was in a horsedrawn cart, but it was still doable. Alfred marched onward, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. They may have lost their home and everything in it, but they still had each other. After all, they were mates, and they were deeply in love, and that was enough for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn, that was a wild ride. Sorry about any confusion from this whole mess with the unfinished final chapter. I really wanted to have it marked as finished on Halloween, but I recently discovered some cool Ao3 haxx that I decided to use. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Fun fact about this story: I didn't think it up as a Halloween fic specifically. I sort of started mapping it out in my head about a year ago, then I almost forgot about it, then I remembered it and decided to fully flesh it out and make it into a spooky holiday fic. I ended up majorly changing the plot several times, but I really like how it turned out. 
> 
> Another Fun Fact: this is the first multi-chapter story I have ever written to completion—that goes for fanfic AND original stories. Though it definitely won't be the last, assuming I don't die within five years or suffer major brain trauma and forget all my story ideas and/or lose my interest in writing ((knock on wood amiright))


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